The Emperor's New Clothes and Other Tales of the Fifth Grail War
by andipossess
Summary: Instead of familiar blue, Shirou's accidental summons draws a red-suited Saber from the deck. She's bold and boisterous and her choice of fashion leaves something to be desired. A series of vignettes about Shirou, Saber, and the events of their Holy Grail War.
1. The Emperor's New Clothes

**The Emperor's New Clothes  
and Other Tales of the Fifth Grail War**

Servants were magnificent beings, weren't they? How could they not be? They were the very souls of great heroes of old given flesh and breath once more, and with that came the prestige of their legends, their pedigrees crystallized physically in the form of their Noble Phantasms.

They were humans who had risen above humanity, literally transcending their earthly shells to become one with the spirit of the Earth. No longer merely human but something more. Something greater.

Shirou's cheek twitched. "Saber," he breathed slowly. "We need to do something about your clothes."

The short, blonde Servant of the sword tilted her head sideways as she looked at him. It was adorable. "Oh? Do you spy a problem with them, Praetor?"

"Well..." How to put this delicately? "I can see your underwear."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Indeed! Such was the design's purpose."

Shirou rubbed his forehead. This is why you should never meet your heroes. "Are you sayi—no. Never mind, I don't want to know. What I'm saying, Saber, is that most women in this day and age don't walk around with their panties in plain sight. Among other things, it would be incredibly suspicious if you were to walk around in public like that." Although, admittedly, she'd more likely be mistaken for a shameless cosplayer than a magically conducted embodiment of a hero.

"Loathe as I am to admit it," Saber grunted, "your words ring with truth, Praetor. It is anathema, but such is the nature of the predicament. These garments, wondrous as they are, would draw far too many eyes to my splendor." She flapped the skirt of her dress emphatically. The undulation increased her cleavage's magnetism by three orders of magnitude and nearly tore Shirou's eyes from their sockets, proving her words. "However, fear not, Praetor! For scenes such as this, I have prepared a change of costume!"

"Wait, really?" He hadn't considered that Servants might have more than one outfit. Then again, they were magical, and his knowledge of the Servant-system mechanics was fuzzy at best.

Shirou watched her chest bounce as she puffed up with pride—well, more pride than usual. "Indeed! And worry not, Praetor. I assure you that these vestments will keep my undergarments adequately concealed. The world may lament that I must hide my glory under a bushel, but your safety is paramount." She nodded to herself. "Yes, it must be a necessary sacrifice."

"Ah, yeah," Shirou agreed, not that he understood her rambling. "Anyway, sorry to trouble you like this, but the sooner you can change, the better." It was getting close to dinner time, and Sakura or Taiga—or _both!_ —were bound to show up any time now.

"Of course, Praetor. It will be but a moment. No, not even that." She smiled slyly at him. "And I would not refuse an audience." Saber laughed heartily when Shirou flushed and abruptedly about-faced. "Your naiveté is endearing, Praetor. It's difficult not to make sport of you."

"J–just change already, Saber," Shirou grumbled, not turning his head.

"You'll find, Praetor, that I already have. You may avail of my visage once more."

"That was quick." Well, whatever she was wearing, there was no way it could be worse than—"What. Is. _That."_

 _That_ was, in some ways, better than the first outfit, but, in nearly every other way, was far worse. _That_ was something that looked like the mutant love-child of a wedding dress and a gimp suit with a zipper fetish—complete with a mockery of a veil. On the other hand, _that_ showed far less skin. Somehow, that was not a reassuring thought.

"It seems you are taken aback once more by my pulchritude, Praetor," Saber said, turning slowly in place to show off _that._

"Saber. I can see your—," he choked, "—your rear." Indeed he could. The designer of the dress had seen fit to remove a panel in the shape of a diamond on the lower back. So low, in fact, that a good 50% of her bottom was visible, crack and all.

"Yes, isn't it magnificent?" She wiggled her exposed backside in his direction. "Truly a sight to see, is it not?"

This had to be a dream. An incredibly odd wet dream. A product of his chemically-overloaded adolescent imagination. And if it wasn't? Well, Shirou refused to be part of that reality. In fact, maybe he could substitute his own reality instead. Wouldn't that be grand? "Are you even wearing anything underneath _that?"_ he regretted asking immediately.

She grinned over her shoulder. "Indeed!"

Shirou's eyes snapped to her rear, then back to her face, then back down again, to confirm that, indeed, there was no such thing covering the area. "I don't see anything." Well, other than her impressively taut posterior. No! Don't think about it!

"Naturally!" Saber responded. "As I promised, my undergarments have been concealed!" She posed, arms akimbo, giving him a full view of the outfit. After a moment, she pouted and tilted her head. "Praetor, you will damage the doorframe if you insist on butting it with your head."

At her question, Shirou paused to rub the new sore spot on his forehead. "No, I think it'll be fine," he said, then went back to banging his head on the wooden frame.

Rapid footsteps were their only warning before the door—a different one—opened.

"Shirou! Food! I'm hungry!" Fuji-nee paused, her enthusiasm put on mute the instant she saw Shirou's continued self-injury. "Um," she hesitated, turning toward the other occupant of the room. "Is something wrong with Shi—WHAT IS **_THAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!"_**

 _ **The Emperor's New Clothes**_

"I see." Fuji-nee nodded in understanding, fist to her chin. "So, what you're saying is that Miss, um—"

"Saber," Shirou said as he finished applying a bandage to his forehead.

"—right, Miss Saber lost her luggage at the airport, and all she could salvage was two outfits: the one she's wearing right now and another in the wash." She looked at Shirou sternly. "Have I got that right?"

Shirou scratched his neck. "Ah, yeah, all she managed to salvage was her carry-on bag, which had her toiletries and, uh, _that."_ He squirmed in his seat under Fuji-nee's stare, which had about doubled in intensity over the last few seconds. "So, that's why—"

"Do you really expect me to believe that story?!" Fuji-nee exploded, foiling Shirou's attempt to clear the air. "I'm not stupid, Shirou! That's definitely the type of plot you'd expect to see in a sitcom or a bad romantic comedy, not the sort of thing that happens in real life!"

"No, wait, hold on! I'm telling you, that's what hap—!"

"Praetor," Saber interrupted. Shirou froze at her grave intonation. It was so unlike her it unnerved him. Fuji-nee looked at her warily. "She's caught us out. Now is honesty's turn."

"Wait, Saber, are you—We can't tell her about—!"

"Praetor," she said more sternly. Shirou's mouth instinctively snapped shut. "I offer my apologies, Lady Taiga," she began. "It was my coercion which drove Pr–Master Shirou to endeavor in deceit against you. Yet now the scales have fallen from my eyes, thus here I impart upon you the truth in all its plainness!"

Fuji-nee gave her an unsure look. "Oh?"

"Indeed," Saber nodded, eyes closed, hand to her heart. "For you see..." She paused, not saying anything for many long moments, a serene look upon her face.

Shirou's shoulders tensed, waiting for Saber to drop the masquerade.

"Pr–Master Shirou is a gracious man, Milady Taiga, who in infinite tenderness took to shelter me, the poor, woeful—yet impossibly beautiful—young woman from the predators of the darkness."

Wait, what?

"Indeed, so pitiable I was to be stumbling about with but my own self under the moonlight, abandoned so by my betrothed at the very altar of our nuptial vows and left in the open to wander about like a vagrant with naught but the clothes I wear now, a symbol of a matrimony yet to be and now forever withheld." She extended her arm to the heavens—or at least the ceiling light shining above her. White and gold confetti floated around her, falling from her outstretched hand.

Shirou slammed a palm into his face. There was no way that anyone would—

"That is such a sad story!" Fuji-nee burbled through sudden tears.

—right, this was Fuji-nee, wasn't it.

"Indeed!" Saber agreed. "And it grows more woeful still! My dastard of a husband-to-be and an ever engorging mob of his making made pursuit against my maidenly self, and so I flew into the thicket to find concealment, _but—!"_ She paused for effect. "—escape was not so freely taken. His men consorted with all manner of beasts, but it was the bloodhounds which made me."

"Oh, no!" Fuji-nee exclaimed.

"In the tumult," Saber continued, "my brides-veil sailed adrift in the nightly zephyr and my skirts tore in the snarls of woodland's gnarled hands. My bridal bouquet was chewed upon by the rats and the rodents. Indeed," she grunted, sweeping a hand downward over her front, "here your eyes rest on the scraps of the affair." She cast her eyes downward, a mournful frown on her lips.

"No!"

She nodded, a look of anguish on her face. "Yes, were it not for this most clement of men," she smiled at Shirou, who, despite himself, suddenly found himself blushing, "the fate of my personage would—pardon me. 'Tis a circumstance too terrible to envision." She took a deep deliberate breath. "Master Shirou has returned to me my life, and a pittance is all I have to repay him. I shall carry his debt so long as I draw breath. Yet, here I am, reposed by his hearth, as a leech upon his arm, and yet still he proffers to garb me by his own bullion! It was this occasion that you happened upon us, milady." She looked at Fuji-nee expectantly. "And that is the tale's end! _Finis!"_ She bowed several times as her audience of one clapped boisterously. Shirou merely stared with growing incredulity.

Fuji-nee wiped a tear from her eye. "Shirou's such a good boy, isn't he? Isn't he? Oh, who knew he'd grow up to be such a good Samaritan to help out a poor girl in need and offer to buy her new clothes? Doesn't he know how expensive that would be? What a foolish, foolish, good boy he is, isn't he?"

"H–hey, Fuji-nee, isn't that a little...?"

"Never mind that, Shirou. This poor girl needs clothes—badly!" Saber opened her mouth to object, but Fuji-nee continued anyway. "But—! I can't let you spend your money all willy-nilly like that, Shirou! I'm sure I can find something of mine for her to wear."

Shirou doubted that. Fuji-nee was tall and thin. Saber was short and... endowed. You couldn't find a bigger mismatch if you tried.

Saber, though, seemed unperturbed. "Indeed! Who can say what beauteous delicacies we shall unearth!" She pointed her finger toward the kitchen. "Lead on, Lady Taiga! **_Exeunt!"_**

"Bye, Shirou! See you later! Make sure dinner's ready when we get back!"

In their absence, Shirou stared for a long time at a slight indentation on the doorframe. Then he rubbed the aching spot on his forehead in frustration.

* * *

Shirou wiped the sweat from his brow. The broth was turning out nicely, and its fine aroma rose with the heat creating a tiny pocket of heaven in the kitchen. The taste wasn't half-bad either.

It was just too bad that there was no one around to eat the food. He turned the heat down on the broth, enough to keep it warm without burning it and sat back down at the kotatsu. It had been nearly an hour since the two had left, which gave him time to cook up a substantial amount of food, enough to feed three at least, but apparently it wasn't enough for the two to solve Saber's wardrobe problem.

Not that he should've expected otherwise. There was something about women and clothes that he still didn't quite get. Even Fuji-nee, the least fashion-conscious person ever, could spend hours trying on clothes, eclectic as her choices were.

A chill ran down his spine. Suddenly, he wasn't sure if letting Fuji-nee pick out Saber's clothes was a great idea. No, best not to think of that. He focused on the warmth of the kotatsu instead to distract him.

The door slid open and, after the shuffling of feet, slid back closed. "Hmm, Senpai? What are you doing down there?"

Shirou cracked open his eyes from the floor. It was Sakura, as expected, looking down at him curiously. He didn't quite remember ever lying down, but he sat up anyway, rubbing at a sudden itch in his right eye. "Huh? Oh, just waiting for Fuji-nee to get back."

"I see you've already finished cooking," she remarked with a tinge of something like disappointment in her voice. She glanced around the kitchen, looking like she might say more, but she didn't.

Shirou scratched his neck. "Ah, yeah. Fuji-nee and—well, Fuji-nee had something to do, and I wanted to be sure dinner was ready by the time she came back. Though..." He looked at the door thoughtfully. "She's taking longer that I thought she would. If you don't mind waiting, Sakura, you can join us for dinner if you'd like. Although I can't tell you exactly when that will be."

"I don't mind waiting, Senpai." Sakura smiled at him as she sat down to his right. "So... where did Fujimura-sensei go?"

Shirou grimaced. How to explain? "Well, the thing about that is that—"

The door slammed open with a bang. "WE'RE BACK!" Fuji-nee stood proudly in the door frame, dressed the same as ever, but Saber was nowhere in sight.

Sakura looked at Shirou. "'We'?"

Fuji-nee's eyes brightened. "Oh! Sakura-chan, perfect timing! We're just about to show off Saber-chan's new clothes!"

 _"'Saber-chan'?"_

"Saber-chan, you ready?" Fuji-nee's voice was filled past the brim with giddiness.

From out of sight, Saber's voice replied, "Indeed I am!"

Fuji-nee mimed holding a mic to her lips. "Ladies and gentlemen! Presenting the _Saber-chan's Magnificent Lovely Yes! Yes! Ba-dump! Fashion Show_ , I am your host, Fujimura!" She paused as though waiting for applause. There was none. "And tonight, we have the beautiful Miss Saber-chan showing off a wonderful fashion item that was supposed to be a gift for Sakura-chan who refused but by then it was too late to return it!"

Sakura suddenly turned very pale.

"Come on out and strut your stuff, Saber-chan!" Fuji-nee slid to the side, gesturing with her arms.

In response, Saber strode into the room, doing a twirl so the audience could see everything.

"Senpai! Don't look!" Sakura lunged at Shirou, attempting to cover his eyes with her hands. But she was far too slow.

Shirou couldn't quite see _everything,_ but it was a damn sight closer to everything than what he expected or what was decent. Hell, "decent" was out the window, the outfit was on the wrong side of risque and veering dangerously close to pornographic, which, sadly, was nothing new today.

Saber was wearing a lavender sweater. _Sort of._ That is, it was only _sort of_ a sweater, and it was only _sort of_ being worn. It was sleeveless, with a turtleneck collar and exposed shoulders, and at first glance, from the front, it seemed modest enough. That modesty was then stabbed in the heart by a barbed red spear of death. The sweater left the soft pale skin of her back utterly exposed, and the flesh of her breasts threatened (convincingly) to spill out the sides. The back dipped down low, lower even than with the mutant wedding dress, low enough that he could see the t-back of her underwear, which failed miserably on its quest to make it halfway up her bottom and instead nestled itself at the convergence of flesh and flesh.

"So, what do you think, Shirou?" Fuji-nee grinned. Or sounded like she did. Shirou was having trouble seeing through Sakura's hands. "I call it the 'Special One-of-a-Kind-Kind-of Virgin-Killing Sweater Mini-Dress'. Bet you're regretting turning down this gift now, aren't you, Sakura-chan? You can just imagine Sakura wearing this, Shirou, can't you?"

Sakura's voice turned stern. "Senpai, I'd ask you please keep the image out of your head."

Too late. It was scary how easy an image it was to picture. The color and cut would suit Sakura far better than it did Saber, and, attractive as it was on the blonde Servant, Sakura had a certain charm that would—

At that thought, Shirou abruptly and wordlessly shifted so that he was facing directly away from Saber _and_ Sakura, with eyes held firmly shut.

Fuji-nee chuckled at that with a mischievous smile. "As expected of the Virgin-Killing Sweater Mini-Dress."

Shirou ignored her, his eyes still closed. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Fujimura-sensei, what exactly is this all about?" Sakura's voice was tinged with confusion, but oddly even.

"Oh, Sakura-chan, you haven't met Saber-chan, yet, have you? It's so sad. Her fiancee left her stranded at the altar, and–and, then he—what did he do again, Saber-chan?"

Saber picked up from Fuji-nee's failed attempt at telling the story. "Indeed, he left me bereft of love and duty, alone at that mockery of a matrimonial stage, but his manhood could not abide before his betrayals were threefold cast. In turn, after he stole my love, next were taken my dignity then my faith. Yes, the second he snatched up when I turned my misgivings toward him, and so incensed was he that he filled his hands with the garments of my nuptial vows and tore them from my flesh!"

Fuji-nee gasped, once again engrossed in Saber's regaling of the circumstances which led her to the here and now and apparently not noticing the clear and obvious discrepancies.

"Senpai," Sakura's voice spoke near his ear, loud enough that he could hear her over Saber's prattling and Fuji-nee's clapping. "Please tell me what's going on." Ah, so she wasn't falling for Saber's story.

Shirou wasn't sure if it was safe yet, but he opened his eyes a crack to address Sakura. "Well, it's kind of hard to explain..." he started, wondering what he should say. "Anyway, the problem is that she doesn't have any daytime appropriate clothing, and, well, Fuji-nee wanted to–to help."

"'Help'...?" Sakura glanced at something behind him.

Shirou stopped himself from looking, but just barely. "Yeah, so, if you could help sort Saber out, I'd really appreciate it." He gave her what he thought was an apologetic smile.

Sakura gave him a serene smile in return. "Don't worry, Senpai. Just leave everything to me." She said it with such confidence that Shirou couldn't help but feel that she would succeed.

"—then, as in uffish thought stood I in the clearing, bathed in Diana's light, an ursine beast, eyes aglow, made to rend me, unheeding of the thorn and bramble in our line. I feared for my life! But, lo! From the woods came the whistle of an arrow's tip piercing through the night air. It struck the monster true, yet it was unflinching and unfeeling. But attention was off from me! I stole for the cover of shade and darkness while still I had moment. Contrarily, my savior shed his shadowy cloak and stood bare in the moonlight, standing tall against the claws of Mother Nature's champion. The crimson of his hair—a beacon of hope and light that never wavered as he and the creature wrestled—the color is seared in my sight. Their combat stood until morning peered from under its veil, when finally only my hero, Master Shirou, prevailed."

Fuji-nee wiped a tear from her eye and sniffled. "I don't approve of you rolling around with bears naked until morning, Shirou," she burbled, "but thank goodness you were there to save this poor girl!"

Shirou's cheek twitched, and he made a mental note to say a prayer for Sakura's endeavors. She'd need all the help she could get.

* * *

An electronic tone accompanied the whir of the automatic door as it slid open. Shirou sighed internally as he stepped over the threshold, returning the cheerful "Welcome!" of the attendant.

He hadn't expected that leaving everything to Sakura would involve getting ejected from the Emiya property, but Sakura had said, "Senpai, I'm going to take a little bit of time. No peeking!" before unceremoniously shooing him outside. It was too late to be of much help at Copenhagen—the commute alone saw to that—so killing time at the convenience store was the most, well, convenient option.

The air inside was considerably warmer than the winter breeze outside, but not so warm he was uncomfortable in his jacket. Still, he unzipped the front about three quarters of the way down as he wandered through the aisles.

Nothing really caught his eye. The various foodstuffs on the shelves were, while not of poor quality, generally not suitable for use as ingredients. Too processed, too much preservative, too artificially flavored. Although he had to admit he was hungry, never having gotten around to serving dinner, he wasn't about to stoop to buying the pre-cooked meals they served. At least, not while he still had food waiting to be eaten.

The pink cover of a magazine on the rack caught his attention. He instinctively glanced toward the woman behind the cash register, who, he noted, was watching him but without any real focus. The other employee had gone off somewhere and was nowhere in sight. Shirou shook his head and grabbed the magazine and stiffly started flipping through it.

The contents were... interesting, certainly, but the target audience of _Pichi Lemon_ was a bit younger than Saber's apparent age, height notwithstanding, so back to the rack it went. Still...

Shirou picked another magazine off the rack. He wasn't exactly certain about women's fashion. He just knew what he liked, he supposed, and none of the women in his life dressed like they did on these pages. Although, admittedly, Fuji-nee was about as fashion-conscious as a rock, and his experience with the girls his age were ultimately limited to his interactions with them at school where they either wore the Homurahara Academy uniform, or various club-related gear.

Of course, this meant that he had no idea which magazine to pick from for Saber to base her fashion on, whether or not Sakura was successful in cleaning up Saber's appearance to begin with. And, although he had faith in Sakura's competence elsewhere, he suspected not even her well-meaning efforts would be bearing much fruit in this particular circumstance. Which meant that he ought to prepare a backup plan: _Operation Fashion Study: feat. Saber_. He had a fervent hope that this backup plan would also require minimal involvement on his part. With that in mind, he stacked up haphazardly selected issues of various publications, optimistic that at least one of them would hit the mark.

The woman at the register kept giving him funny looks as she rung up the magazines at an agonizingly slow pace. Each tick of the till sent another unbidden bead of sweat from his forehead. She paused for a very long time and stared at one particular cover, her eyes flickering to look at Shirou (who deftly avoided the eye contact) for several long moments before she wordlessly rung that up, too.

The ¥4,053 combined price of six magazines left him wincing, and he silently prayed for the fate of his food budget even as he reached for his wallet.

The sudden sound of gnashing metal crashed through the store. "You've got to be kidding me!"

Both Shirou and the cashier looked up. The male employee was running his hand through his hair, desperately fiddling with the control panel of the slushy machine, and the machine was being entirely unappreciative of his magic touch. It wasn't making a mess—yet—, but the mechanical din had apparently chased off a few would-be customers already. The employee, barely older than Shirou, it seemed, looked to be at the end of his rope.

"Come, on," he mumbled, fruitlessly pecking at some more toggles.

A thought struck Shirou. He still had more time to kill, and he wasn't the type to leave others in distress if he could help it, no matter how diminutive the distress might seem. Not when there was someone to save. "Excuse me..."

* * *

Shirou slipped back into his house an hour later, carrying his purchased magazines in a cheap plastic bag. Disappointingly, he had spent more time convincing the employees to allow him to touch the machine than it took to actually repair it. There wasn't much mechanically wrong with the machine, but it had been left in a bad state by improper inputs on the control panel, which was unfortunately not one of Shirou's areas of expertise. Still, he soldiered on and was able to trial-and-error his way to success with liberal use of Structural Grasping to gauge his progress.

The employees had insisted on letting him take the magazines free of charge after that. He staunchly refused at first but soon gave into his baser nature after they agreed to "just" let him have a 50% discount. Perhaps his food budget could still be salvaged after all.

The house itself was so remarkably quiet, no sound but the blaring of the TV from the living room, that Shirou half-thought that Fuji-nee, Sakura, and Saber had all vacated for reasons heretofore unknown. "I'm home!" he called, sliding open the door to the only source of sound.

What.

Sitting in the center of the room was an amorphous pile of clothing vaguely shaped into a caricature of a human figure. It turned as Shirou stepped in, and underneath the many layers, Shirou just barely spotted a pair of sharp green eyes peering back at him.

"Mrmmfmr!" came Saber's voice brightly from the pile. "Ymm'ff rmfmrmmm mf mmmf!"

Shirou shook his head. This had to be Sakura's doing. "Hey, Saber, where'd Sakura and Fuji-nee go?"

"Fmfm Fmmfm fmmf Mmff Fmfmrm—" Shirou pulled down the muffler from Saber's mouth "—on a trek back to the latter's abode, Praetor. They requested I await your return, and so, as you see, I have done as much." She attempted to gesture, but her flexibility was trapped underneath seventeen pounds of cloth, so the movement just caused her to flop onto the floor uselessly. "Pardon my clumsiness, Praetor. This garb, although fashionable, makes even small gesticulations argumentative," she told him, not getting up.

"Fashionable is not the word I'd use," Shirou muttered.

"It appears I may require aid sitting back up again, Praetor. I wish to continue observing Yuuichi's search for his lost past." To prove her point, Saber groaned as though she were attempting to sit up, but otherwise did not appear to move at all. "This is admittedly quite vexing."

Shirou sighed. "Right, let's get you out of that."

He couldn't help but marvel at how Sakura had managed to fasten closed roughly twelve layers of sweaters, coats, and other things on top of one another without a single one tearing so much as a seam. He was having trouble doing the reverse while leaving the garments intact, although given the egregious stretching that had assuredly taken place, he wasn't sure if it was worth the effort. The top layers were now likely unusable to anybody but the most girthy. He thought about that. Donating these clothes to a big-and-tall store might offset the cost of the magazines he'd purchased—assuming of course that Sakura didn't want them back. It would be polite to ask, at least.

With ten layers peeled, Saber, once more sitting up and enraptured by the anime on the television, a rerun of a premiere that had aired on Thursday, looked to be dressed in a respectable two layers suitable for daily winter wear. What they lacked in fashion and color coordination, they made up for in modesty, and Shirou briefly considered not giving Saber the magazines and instead just surreptitiously returning them at some later date.

Still, they were bought now, and they would certainly give Saber some much-needed insight into modern fashion trends. Hopefully. If she got some use out of them, good, and if she didn't, well, he might still be able to return them if she was careful with them, and she seemed the type to care for material objects. Or maybe it was more that she didn't seem otherwise.

He unceremoniously, albeit neatly, stacked the magazines on the kotatsu, and Saber hardly spared them a glance. It wasn't long before the credits began to roll. Saber nodded in appreciation, bobbing to the ending music. "The hint of romance between Ayu and Yuuichi intrigues me. Indeed, the atmosphere has such emotional charge that I fear for their future already."

Ignoring Saber's review, Shirou slapped a hand onto the stack. "Saber, read these magazines when you have the time. The clothes Sakura gave you are fine, but it's probably a good idea for you to study modern fashion trends as well, and these will help with that." Hopefully.

"How generous of you, Praetor," Saber praised, picking up the top magazine and thumbing through it gently. "Indeed, these garbs appear comely as well as functional and better suit my nature as Miss Sakura's do hers."

Shirou's cheek twitched. He hoped "comely" didn't mean she'd pick one of the more risque options in the future. Fashion was one thing, but having to purchase such a thing for her and live with her wearing it around... well, while it wasn't an _unpleasant_ or even _unwelcome_ thought, it would be enormously difficult to explain to anyone who cared to ask. Namely Sakura and Fuji-nee.

"Anyway, study up, and then once you have a better idea of what you want, we might be able to scrounge something up to match."

"A most generous Praetor, indeed." Saber smiled at him pleasantly. Shirou reflexively jerked his eyes away, mumbling, "No problem." Saber continued, "I will consume the contents posthaste. You shan't be disappointed at my performance."

As Saber dug into the magazines, Shirou assessed the state of dinner. He mentally thanked Sakura for having the foresight to properly contain everything so that they would still be adequate if reheated. No wasted food, no cooking a second dinner, and no mad and hungry Fuji-nee whenever she deigned to reappear.

He set aside a portion of the food for Fuji-nee, idly wondering if he should have bought a snack for her from the convenience store, and began the process of reheating the rest. It was a relatively short process, and soon a pleasant aroma was whirling once again through the air.

Dinner was a quiet affair with Saber engrossed in her perusal of the magazines. She was very thorough, it seemed, flipping through the pages and reading each one by one, absorbing rather than just leafing through. Shirou didn't particularly mind the quiet, but he was used to Fuji-nee being around for mealtimes and without her raucousness, things were perturbingly calm. He wondered what was taking her so long to get back.

He was starting to worry when she hadn't returned by the time he'd finished eating, and was contemplating leaving to go find her when Saber suddenly broke her silent study with elation on her face. "Praetor! I've found a solution that requires no further investment more than a paltry! Indeed, this manuscript is Deus ex Machina! I almost regret that such an answer was so readily given without hardship, but alas the knowledge has been seared into my brainstuffs and I can forget it no longer. Stubbornness in this regard is foolhardiness."

Shirou tilted his head in confusion. "Ah, so wait, do you mean there's some fashionable clothing you can wear that we won't need to buy?" That was highly suspect, but his budget was still smarting.

"Indeed. Common household items shall be enough. Truly a golden apple dropped by the gods." She seemed eager.

Household items? Maybe some sort of blanket toga? Had those somehow become fashionable? "Well, if you think so, you can go—"

Saber was already up and gone. "I shall return!" came from the hallway.

Shirou sighed and neatly restacked the magazines. One was missing, which he assumed Saber had taken with her. He hadn't examined them thoroughly enough earlier to recognize which one that would be, however. They were all too similar to him.

He gathered the dishes from the table and began to methodically wash them. The current of warm water running over the dishes was relaxing after earlier's trying hours, and the almost mechanical nature of washing allowed him to drift away for a bit.

"Praetor, have you any—where are the healing pla—ah, worry not, they could not escape my search for long!"

Her voice ripped him right back into reality. He frowned for a moment but went right back to scrubbing.

Behind him, the shuffling of bare feet heralded Saber's return to the room. "My fashion is once more unsullied, Praetor, aside, I'm afraid, from a lack of properly matched stockings, although the text was adamant such an addition was unnecessary. Indeed, although regretful, I must play the hand dealt. With that supposed, lay gaze upon me, Praetor!"

An outfit assembled so quickly _had_ to be something simple like a toga, right? "That was fast," he admitted. "All right, let's see—"

The dish in his hand almost shattered in his grip. A tiny fracture creeped from underneath his thumb with an audible clink.

Saber was wearing—well, she was wearing _nothing_ it seemed like. She was standing in the middle of the living room nude as the day she was born. Not even a scrap of visible undergaments, tops or bottoms. He tried to exclaim in shock or disbelief or, really, anything at all, but all that came from his throat was a pitchy groan tinged with dismay.

No, wait, that was wrong. She wasn't _nude._ "Saber," he choked. "Are you wearing a _band-aid?"_

Saber tilted her head. "That would be foolish, Praetor. No, just the one would not be fashionable. I have on _three."_

Indeed she did. One each was strategically placed over the nipples of her breasts, and a third was determinedly attempting to preserve the modesty of her bottom half with an admirable sort of stubbornness despite the Sisyphean nature of the task. All three were the same color: flesh-toned, which made them all quite difficult to spot on her otherwise nude form. With difficulty, he avoided picturing her with "matching" stockings.

She puffed her chest, which, unbound by any support whatsoever, wobbled enticingly. "Glorious, is it not? Truly a raiment suited for an emperor!"

Shirou opened his mouth to reply, although he was still unsure what he ought to say, but before a sound could leave his lips, the door slid open.

"I'm back from helping a blond, suspiciously handsome foreigner find his way around Fuyuki by pointing him to a police box while on my way back from Sakura-chan's home, and now I'm even hungrier than before!"

Shirou froze even as Saber struck a dramatic pose that showed off all the nothing she was wearing. "Lady Taiga! Look upon my adornments!"

Fuji-nee's smile visibly dropped from her face and clattered to the floor. She was stiff enough that her body proper might have followed, but color quickly saturated her face in defiance. "SHIROU! WHY IS SABER-CHAN NAKED IN YOUR LIVING ROOM?! I REFUSE! I REFUSE! I REFUSE! I REFUSE!"

Saber looked perturbed. "My beauty is a boundless gift to the world! I regret that even you may not be fit to see it for its true glory, Lady Taiga."

"WHAT?! NOT FIT?! BUT I GET MY DAILY EXERCISE IN EVERYDAY!"

"I fear we have a miscommunication."

Ignoring the two, Shirou slowly walked past the bickering women, one next-to-nude and the other, thankfully, _not_ , and began reacquainting his forehead with the wooden frame of the doorway.

 _CRACK._

"I told you so, Praetor."

* * *

Next time on _The Emperor's New Clothes..._

"You know, Emiya-kun, I gave Saber-chan some clothes. On that first night?"

 _King Arthur's Fight with the Great Cat!_

See you then! ❤

* * *

Despite the misleading next episode preview, the following story will not be a continuation of this one. That'll be saved for some future date, assuming I don't forget how to write. It's liable to happen at times. Instead we'll explore another aspect of Shirou's partnership with red Saber: meeting other Servants!

For those who get here, this is the first in a series of vignettes starring Shirou and his summoned Servant, the eponymous emperor, as they navigate the trials thrown upon them by the circumstance that is the Fuyuki's fifth war for the Holy Grail. The stories won't necessarily be told chronologically and will instead skip between various plots and moments as I find them interesting to write.

Blame Raiyoukai for putting these awful ideas in my head.

If you liked the story, review. If you didn't like it, review. Or don't. But seriously please do.


	2. Hansel and Gretel

**The Emperor's New Clothes  
and Other Tales of the Fifth Grail War**

 **"Lancer!"**

Lancer jolted awake at her Master's bellow, and with bleary eyes took a moment to recollect her surroundings. It was the sitting room, one of many, in said Master's castle (if you could call it that), and she was seated in perhaps the most comfortable chair in its entirety. She must have fallen asleep while reading.

 ** _"LANCER!"_**

She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes but a sigh still escaped her lips. If it was urgent, she would have felt a stronger tug from her Master's bond, but as of late her Master had begun to shirk her duties as a participant of the Grail War in favor of making bedfellows with what should have been her enemies. She groaned as she left the arms of her seat and just remembered to memorize her place in the book she was reading. It seemed Malory would have to wait.

She stretched as she stood and picked a few pieces of lint from her coat. Even if Illya wasn't going to be appreciative of the effort, it paid to be presentable. When she was certain she was in order (and that she hadn't drooled on her sleeve again) she marched into the hall and into a tall body.

It was Servant Archer. "Hey, Saber," he said, with a wave and an obnoxious grin.

"It's _Lancer."_ She ground her teeth. How many times had she corrected him now? Uncountably many, yet he still feigned ignorance!

"Your Master was calling, you know," he said, ignoring her again. "You were taking so long, I just had to make sure you weren't lost." He gave her a bright smile. "Again."

"I was not lost then," she spat. "And I'm not lost now. _Good day,_ Archer." She pushed past him, but he deftly moved aside. She turned the corner and came face-to-face with a dead end.

Archer choked back a laugh.

 _"Don't—!"_ She glared at him and he just smiled in response. His lip twitched. With a last look at him, she stormed away.

She was sure he burst into laughter once she was out of earshot. He made it a game to do his best to make her want to murder him, and he was skilled. But he would get his. She swore it.

After a few minutes of wandering, and much cursing about infernal architects, she finally found her Master's quarters. Hopefully. She knocked on the wooden door firmly.

She sighed in relief at her Master's voice. "If that's you, Lancer, come in already!"

That was permission, enough. It was a formality that her Master likely didn't appreciate, but Lancer made a point of knocking every time.

"It's about time!" Illya and her maid, Leysritt, sat on the bed. No, that was wrong. Leysritt sat on the bed. Illya wiggled to and fro erratically, waving around a purple device connected by wire to Leysritt's more boxy thing.

"Take this! Zap Cannon!" Illya cried at an unclear target. "What?!" she screeched. "It missed?! That's not supposed to miss!" She threw the device on the bed, and the connecting cable popped out.

"Ah. Rage quit. Disqualified," Leysritt said in her stilted, unnatural way. The corners of her mouth quirked a little, but her face remained otherwise neutral.

"Arrgh! Stupid game!" Illya flumped facedown onto her blankets. "I should've won." She lay still for a moment before turning a glare toward Leysritt. "Let's trade! Trade me your best one!" she ordered sternly.

It wasn't very effective. "Sore. Loser."

"Urgghhh," gurgled a voice at the window. "Keep it down. Some people need sleep." It was Archer's Master, and she badly needed rest, it looked like. Her hair was in disarray, her clothes rumpled, and her eyelids drooping. She turned over and snored.

Lancer cleared her throat. "You summoned me, Master?"

Her Master grunted and pushed herself off the bed. Drawing herself up all 133 cm, she declared, "Lancer, I need you to go on an errand for me."

"An errand?" Lancer looked at Leysritt who seemed engrossed in her rectangle and not at all busy.

"If I'm going to keep playing this," Illya said, waving her purple device around, "I need more batteries because _someone_ —," she glared at Leysritt, who stared back without expression, "—has been stealing them all! So you're going to buy more."

"Pardon me, Master, but is this not Miss Leysritt's sort of task? Or Miss Sella's perhaps? If I'm not at your side should a situation arise..." Her eyes flicked toward Archer's Master, who had slipped out of her chair onto the floor with her neck bent uncomfortably.

"We can handle ourselves, Lancer. What's important is that you do as you're told. Leys will be here to make me presentable for my date with Onii-chan, and Sella..." Illya's cheeks reddened and she looked away. "Sella is taking a mental health day."

Leysritt nodded. "Mario. Party. All night."

Lancer grimaced. "I see." She was suddenly very glad she hadn't investigated the noises last night.

"Leave me alone, Boo! Get your own stars!" Archer's Master mumbled from the floor.

"Listen carefully, Lancer. I want you to go to Mount Miyama and pick me up some Eneloop—got it? _Eneloop_ —AA Rechargeable batteries. And a charger, too." Illya tore a sheet of stationery from her pad and handed it to Lancer. The ink on the page was still wet. "That's the address."

Lancer nodded. "As you wish, Master."

"What are you waiting for? Hurry up! And be back before my date with Onii-chan!"

The Tohsaka Master snored. "Shut _up,_ Daisy."

 _ **Hansel and Gretel**_

Lancer took to Mount Miyama by foot, wishing she had some vehicle. What use was Riding without one? The sun was near its zenith by the time of her arrival. Its rays shone down on the rows of buildings that made up the shopping district, warming up the cold morning air to a pleasant temperature.

The bustle of vendors and shoppers around her bestowed a sense of life and energy to this place. She refused more than a few packages of branded tissues from the young women handing them out. Delicious aromas floated from all around, but she pulled herself from the temptation. Orders first, then lunch.

She unfolded the sheet Illya had given her. "Miyama Electric Goods," it read, but the rest was smudged. The entire address was unreadable. She stared down the road with dread. It suddenly stretched somehow further into the horizon.

She began to walk. Past the vendors up her path, advertising enticing foodstuffs. Past the woman stacking scoops of ice cream in perilous towers. Past the man selling crepes from a portable installation. Each distraction pulled at Lancer like a magnet. Each time, she closed her eyes and shook her head, resolving to focus harder.

Alas, focus didn't help. It was long past lunchtime when she reached the end of the road, but she had no success. She had fallen to distraction. Those crepes had just smelled so delicious...

Hands covered her eyes, and a shamefully high-pitched squeal tore through her throat.

"I've claimed your eyeballs, friend! Surmise my identity, or they are mine forever!"

Her captor—and it was obviously Saber—latched onto Lancer's back, her legs pinning Lancer's arms to her sides. Adrenaline-fueled panic coursed through Lancer's blood. Again? Why was this happening again? Why could she still not break free from Saber's grip?! Her memories assailed her, and an imaginary force tightened around her neck. She couldn't breathe.

A new voice spoke. "You should let go, Saber. I don't think Lancer-san is enjoying your game."

"If Praetor insists." Saber pouted and detached, and Lancer dropped to her knees, breathing heavily. She fumed at her loss of control. Saber was _no_ threat, preceding evidence aside. She and her Master were troublesome fools at worst. Still, she rubbed her throat, remembering Saber's "harmless" death grip.

"I apologize, Lancer. I'll keep her under control next time..."

Lancer took his offered hand and found herself staring into Saber's Master's golden eyes. His hand felt warm and familiar, and she found herself holding it for just a second too long. She jerked backward and scrambled to her feet, then cursed, berating herself for the overreaction. He blinked owlishly at her, with his head tilted slightly.

"A–ah," he stammered, with eyes that hesitated to meet hers. Good. "Hey, Lancer. Is Illya around?"

She cleared her throat. "Not today. No. I am..." She looked back at the smudged sheet. "On an errand." She frowned at the sheet. "Hmm."

The Emiya boy gave her a curious look. "You're not lost, are you, Lancer?"

"I am _not_ lost. I don't _get_ lost. I merely lose sight of my destination."

"Is there some distinction?" Saber quipped.

Lancer glared at Saber and bowed stiffly in their direction. "If you'll excuse me—," the sooner she was away from them, the better, "—I have a vendor to find."

"Hey, hold on!" Lancer involuntarily paused at his call. "I can help. I'm familiar with the area, and it's not trouble at all. Besides, I'm sure Illya wants you by her side as soon as possible." He half-smiled encouragingly and sidled up beside her to read the address, causing Lancer to flinch at the unexpected closeness. She could feel the natural heat radiating from his body—and again that strange, familiar warmth. "Batteries from Miyama Electric, huh?" he said, jarring Lancer back to reality. "That's... this way."

He walked and Lancer followed. Saber fell in behind them, uncharacteristically silent. They turned down an alley, and Lancer wanted to smack her forehead because she had been distracted from it by the crepe stand. Within was an unassuming entrance to an electronics shop.

The bell chimed as their group filed in through the doors. The old man at the till nodded his head at Saber's Master, who waved back. Perhaps he came often?

He led them down the surprisingly large interior of the shop, through the maze of narrow aisles. Saber couldn't keep her eyes in any single place for longer than a moment. Her gaze flew from shelf to shelf, curiosity and wonder on her face as she beheld the breadth of humanity's technological progress. Energetic gurgles rose from her throat, as though she were trying very hard not to squeal in excitement. Her Master had a tight grip on her wrist, gently tugging her along as he walked. A good idea, Lancer supposed, as Saber was the type to cause trouble if left unchecked.

Lancer reigned herself in better than the similar-seeming Servant, but she had to admit some curiosity herself. The Grail fed her knowledge of the names and purposes of each thing she saw, but knowing what a computer was and actually interacting with one herself had a chasm of meaning between them. In just the ten years since her previous summoning, it seemed the world of technology had once again grown in leaps and bounds.

"Saber..." Emiya sighed with exasperation.

"Yes, Mas—?" Lancer cut herself off. Archer's stupid game was making its mark on her, but he wasn't around to be dealt with, so she settled for glaring at Emiya's back. That made her feel so much better.

"Did you say something, Lancer?" He had a perplexed look on his face, as he turned to her.

Lancer melted her stern gaze quickly, then coughed and shook her head.

"Must have been my imagination then." His cheeks turned red as he turned his eyes toward the ceiling. "I thought you said—" He cleared his throat. "Anyway, Illya said she wanted _Eneloop_ batteries, right?"

"That's right." Lancer herself wasn't sure what distinguished one brand from another. Perhaps it was just a matter of quality, like how some crepe shops served better crepes than others.

"That's going to be a problem, I think. Looks like this place doesn't carry them." His eyebrows knit together in worry. "Maybe Illya misheard something?"

Lancer's brow furrowed. "What are you implying?"

"Eh? Oh, no, I don't mean anything by that. I just—I've never heard of this brand before. This place keeps the bigger names in stock for the most part, so it's surprising that Illya's asking for a brand name that isn't here. Maybe she meant _Energizer?_ That brand seems pretty big in the West."

Lancer wasn't quite sure if she understood his ramblings, but... "So I've been sent for nothing."

"It looks that way, if she's dead set on Eneloop," he said, scratching the back of his neck.

Lancer grimaced. Illya would absolutely refuse any brand other than the one she requested. "I see." She fought to keep the dread from leaking into her voice. She wasn't quite sure she succeeded.

"In any case," he continued, "if she needs batteries, we should pick some up anyway as a stopgap. She might not like the wrong brand, but I'm sure she'd prefer having some than not having any."

"How pragmatic, Praetor!" chirped Saber. "You'd make a decent advisor!"

Pragmatism aside, Lancer did not look forward to facing her Master without the _Eneloops_ in hand.

Then her stomach rumbled. She turned pink to the tips of her ears, glaring down at her traitorous abdomen.

"Hah! A lion roars from an intestinal cage, craving sustenance!" Saber chortled, then she rubbed her chin. "Curious, that, a Servant who hungers."

Her Master went straight to the point. "Did you skip lunch, Lancer?"

Lancer turned away but nodded. The tips of her ears felt hot.

"Well, I won't chastise you for skipping a meal because I'm sure there were extenuating circumstances, but I guess even a Heroic Spirit like you needs to enjoy a meal every now and then, huh?" He put his hand to his chin in a thoughtful pose. "How about this? I buy these batteries," he said, flapping a package of _Energizer_ batteries, "and take them to Illya. You and Saber can grab a bite to eat, my treat." He pulled some folded yen bills from his pocket and handed them to Lancer.

She stared at the wad of money in her hand, an inner war brewing within her. She could accept his kindness—and her stomach very much wanted her to—, but in so accepting she would be accepting a debt toward him. She glanced at him, wondering at an ulterior motive lying beneath his placid demeanor, but if there was any, there were no signs.

She should refuse. Ulterior motive or no, she couldn't bear to owe a debt to Emiya Shirou. Son of Emiya Kiritsugu, whom she hated. Master of Saber, whom she... severely detested. Who simultaneously stared at her while refusing to meet her eyes.

But then her stomach burbled again, and the words slipped out of her mouth of their own accord. "I appreciate your kindness."

* * *

Lancer wanted to berate herself for how she acted around Emiya Shirou. The moment he showed up, she became a lost, mewling child being led around to do a simple errand. Never mind that she had been unable to find the place. Never mind that _Eneloop_ apparently didn't actually exist. Never mind that he never actually physically dragged her anywhere.

She was just so frustrated at her sudden loss of competence. Surely this was a result of being so complacent for the last few months since her summoning.

"It's humorous to watch your interaction," Saber said, interrupting her own babbling and hopping in front of Lancer. "He believes you a man yet bears a torch for you." She clicked her tongue. "He dissembles so poorly, no? A blind man could spot it."

Lancer grit her teeth. "Man or not, _torch_ or not, it doesn't matter. I'm a Servant of this war, and an ally, but nothing further."

"Hmm? Just allies? Does your maiden's heart not beat furiously against your breast for him?" Saber punctuated the thought with a deliberate pause. Then she smiled widely. "I jest. Surely you don't feel the same for a fated enemy." Despite the certainty in her tone, there was a hint of a question in it.

"Indeed," Lancer replied simply. "There is no such affection."

Saber gave her a coy grin but didn't say anything.

Lancer picked up her pace and shoved past her smiling doppelganger, her head turn downward and eyes averted, but the other Servant just chortled and fell back into step behind her.

"Why do you dress so, anyway? Like a man," Saber chirped. Lancer didn't respond, so she continued. "Indeed, with proper furnishing and fashion—I've made this era's known to me, you know—, some color on your face and lips... Yes, you'd bloom a healthy vividness not far from mine own, as, though you are more homely than I, we have a similarity of the face, thus what makes me shine must at least make you sparkle. Though, my own vestments perhaps would not suit you as well as I. What we share in countenance is not reflected in our forms. Your own is, in shape and height, more like a man's, thus cloth fitted to my womanly frame would not hang properly upon your shoulders—though they'd be too tight there as well, I think, and—"

Then she collided with Lancer's suddenly halted back. She frowned and rubbed her nose. "Ouch," she whined.

Lancer groaned. "Do you never hold your tongue?"

Saber tilted her head, her lips pursed in confusion. "And who would gain if I did? The world would drown in grief bereft of my wondrous tones."

"The only drowning will be in your spittle," Lancer muttered under her breath, almost hoping Saber would hear. She didn't. Unfortunately.

The queue for the crepe stand had grown somewhat in the time since she'd last seen it, but her craving was stronger than her logic, so she found herself joining at its tail end. Joyfully, it wouldn't be long either way. Saber joined her, under strict orders from her Master to stay by Lancer's side.

Lancer wished she could turn Saber loose, but the Servant remained true to her word and stuck to her. Like a barnacle. Who would not. Stop. Talking.

As far as Lancer was concerned, she no longer owed Emiya Shirou any debts. In fact, this counted as two favors, so really he owed her one. More than that, even.

Not that, after today, she would willingly confront him or his Servant ever again outside of battle.

"—are a fetching ensemble, I suppose, though the hues do more to dull my eyes than not. Instead of verdant forests, they become gray like the deadlands. Hmm, a troubling thought. I shall seek to correct these garments with haste. I've half—more than that!—the mind to throw caution to the wind and readjust now, although Praetor is adamant that such was unacceptable in polite company, and you, Lancer, have indeed been polite company, so I shall combat the urge and remain clothed these few moments longer—"

Lancer inched away from Saber as the line moved, but Emiya Shirou's Servant just followed, remaining unavoidably attached to her side.

"—a repressed people. Praetor as well, though I aim to break the bonds of his upbringing. Do you suppose he rides well, or should another be the rider? Hmm, let's exercise caution and remove Rider from his presence until an answer is revealed. Or ask kind invitation..." Saber gasped. "Does he find the male form as succulent as he does the female? That would explain..." She glanced meaningfully at Lancer. "The tension he and Archer share... Is such a product of lust? Between them _both?_ "

The people behind them were whispering now, Lancer heard. She ducked her head, slowly sidling to distance herself from Saber, hoping no one would notice their similarity in appearance.

 _"Group relations!"_ Saber blurted, making Lancer jump. "A writhing mass of pleasure—has he a room large enough? Have we enough willing participants?" She looked at Lancer again, who jerked her head to face the other direction. "Myself and Praetor, naturally," she said, counting on her fingers. "Archer. Archer's Master. Rider. Rider's Master. Rider's other Master? No, not him. Praetor's friend—the one with the bow. The one with the spectacles as well, surely. Perhaps the golden Archer as well?" She looked at her hands. "The other Servants remain unfamiliar, but I've already run out of fingers." She clapped her hands and grinned from ear to ear. "Smaller than my customary, but more than plentiful! Be served anon, Lancer, before the rabble to our rear rouses."

Saber pointed behind Lancer, who had been so thoroughly distracted she hadn't even perused the menu. Unlike Saber, she was painfully aware of the mutterings of the people behind them and the pointed stare of the girl—likely a part-timer—behind the counter.

With no time to ponder, she jabbed at the first item underneath the "Savory" heading. Fortunately, she wasn't picky, so when, after a short wait, the woman behind the register handed Lancer a delicacy filled with cheese and chicken and lettuce, she held no lingering disappointment. It smelled heavenly.

She watched Saber, who unhesitatingly asked for an unavailable (and unoffered) loaf of honey-sweetened bread of all things, but eventually, after an excruciating "discussion" with the poor girl at the counter, settled for a dessert crepe that dwarfed her in size. Saber stared at it, wide-eyed, almost frightened.

Lancer ate hers as they walked. The aroma wafted into her nostrils as she took her first bite. Then her second. Then her third. Each was as delicious as the last, each with a different ratio of ingredients bringing out different aspects to the flavors as they melded together in her mouth. The crisp, yet soft dough soaked up the juices and sung a harmonious counterbalance against the sharper savory taste of the cheese and poultry wrapped within. Her tongue darted to lick her lips of mayonnaise as she chewed.

Saber picked at hers more slowly. Every so often, she would take a bit of the wrap and toss it onto the paved street, leaving behind a trail of the stuff.

"What are you doing?" Lancer asked, half accusingly and half genuinely curious.

"Like Theseus, I leave a path to follow should I seek to retrace my steps!" Saber squinted at her crepe. "And these flakes disturb me. They shall find no shelter in my stomach."

Now thoroughly confused, Lancer opened her mouth to ask for clarification but snapped it shut when she remembered who she was asking. Saber had so kindly spared her from a diatribe, and so she refused to tempt fate into spurring Saber into one for Lancer's hubris. So instead she just shrugged her shoulders and walked without questioning for once—out loud, anyway—Saber's eccentricities.

Her crepe, sadly, lived a short, albeit delicious, life, and Lancer found herself fighting against the temptation to march right back—following Saber's trail, no less—to the crepe stand and order another two or three or five crepes. The change from Emiya Shirou's contribution jangled in her pocket.

Distracted in thought, Lancer had so thoroughly tuned out the world around her, Saber included, she didn't notice the young woman with burgundy hair and a glazed expression walk up to her and spray her with a cloud of perfume until she was coughing at the sudden burst of miasma.

"Please enjoy a small sample of _KENZO'_ s scent, _FlowerByKenzo,"_ the woman said with an awkward cadence and a vapid smile.

Lancer didn't care. She stumbled in a random direction until her lungs found (mostly) clean air. The coughing subsided, but her eyes still burned.

Saber walked up to her and sniffed sharply. "You smell of vanilla," she commented. "And flowers. And sweat." She wrinkled her nose, then noticed her companion's quivering shoulders. "Are you ailing, Lancer?"

Lancer was losing grip on herself. She tried to concentrate on Saber's voice, hoping sheer irritation would keep her anchored, but she felt herself slipping anyway. Eventually Saber's babbling became somehow less intelligible, and then she was gone entirely.

But then, so was everything else.

* * *

"It's getting late," Lancer told her sister. "We should find some shelter."

Saber plopped herself onto an exposed root, not caring that it soiled her dress. "Oh, what are we going to do, Lancer? The sun will set soon, and we don't know where home is. What are we going to eat? Where will we sleep?"

"I don't know, all right?" Lancer sank down. "I don't know." Her stomach grumbled. "I'm getting hungry."

"Aren't you always?" Saber gave her an impish smile.

Lancer glared in response. "Getting cheeky, aren't you?" Then she sighed. Her sister was just trying to lighten the mood, was all. She turned her glare toward the reddening sky, angry at herself for not making any progress.

Saber began to sniff, and Lancer glanced at her, wondering if she was crying. "Sister, everything will turn out f—"

"Do you smell that?" Saber asked. She sniffed again.

"Smell what?" Then Lancer smelled it too. It was warm and fresh, and she couldn't quite place it, but her mouth was starting to water all the same. "What... what is that?" She couldn't keep the wonder from her voice.

"It smells heavenly," remarked Saber, no less enchanted.

And so they followed their noses as best they could. The woods grew ever darker, but the smell grew stronger and, somehow, more enticing. More delicious.

They came upon it in a clearing. It was a house. More a cottage, really. It stood no taller than the height of a man and maybe half more, and it was as wide as only two, perhaps, and would be otherwise unremarkable save that it had been constructed entirely of freshly cooked, aromatic, delectable, and irresistible chunks of meat.

Smoked ham, roasted chicken breasts, grilled salmon, seared brisket, and barbecued ribs, all of it stacked into a precarious construction which appeared to stand more by sheer force of will than by any natural laws of the Earth. Yet, stood it did before the eyes of Lancer and his sister, who were both stricken with such awe that their brains had yet to decide on some action.

Lancer finally pulled her jaw closed to swallow the sudden volume of saliva in her mouth. "Saber. Do you see it as well?" She couldn't take her eyes off the sight.

"It's a house. Made of, of _meat!_ How can there be such a thing?"

Lancer stepped closer. "Do you think that you, we can eat it?" She reached out to grab at a chicken leg, which tantalizingly stuck out from among its brethren.

"Perhaps we ought not to. I don't imagine I'd be very glad if two strangers started to eat _our_ home."

"If it smells this good, there's no way it's not for eating." She grabbed at the chicken leg, and, though the walls wobbled in response, the surrounding food fell into the space left behind and the house remained standing.

"It's like magic!" Saber exclaimed.

Lancer examined the morsel with a keen eye but sensed nothing wrong with it. She placed it between her teeth, where its aroma found a direct path into her nostrils, incensing her to tear a chunk out with a deft jerk of her head. The meat slid off the bone easily. The crispy skin on the outside crinkled even as the juicy white flesh inside flooded her tongue with a throng of flavors. She moaned in delight as she chewed and swallowed, just in time for another bite and, soon after, another choice of meat.

Next came a steak, grilled to perfection. Then came a rack of ribs, soaked in sweet marinade that sent tingles down her spine. After that came the ham, glazed with honey and cleanly sliced. Each tasted more delicious than the last, and though the house shuddered whenever Lancer freed another from its walls, it remind as tall and as sturdy as it had since before the first.

Sparing a glance to her right, Lancer noted that her sister had also picked something from the savory structure and was nibbling her food more voraciously (if you could call it that) than at any meal they shared. But having paid enough attention to her sister, Lancer turned back to their cornucopia.

"Stop!" came a voice. "Stop! Stop eating my house!"

Lancer paused mid-chew and looked up, finding herself looking at a woman perhaps her mother's age, who had an apron on over her plain dress and her hair tucked behind her curiously pointed ears. "Is this your house?" Lancer asked through a mouthful. "It's very delicious."

"It _is_ my house, and you're eating it!" reprimanded the woman.

Lancer shrugged. "If you didn't want passersby to eat it, you oughtn't have made it of meat." She finished her sausage, and made to grab a new one, but her hand was smacked forcefully away. She rubbed at the sting and glared at her assailant. "Now what'd you go and do that for? A bit rude, isn't it?"

Lancer yelped in pain as the woman yanked her ear. _"Rude_ is feasting on someone else's property without permission!" Her anger evaporated as she smiled at Saber. "Come on in. I suppose I'll just have to have you both for dinner." She dragged a cursing Lancer inside by the ear, and Saber followed them in.

It was brightly lit by a ceiling mounted lantern inside. Flames danced inside a fireplace made of stone and brick, and the meaty walls seemed somehow less appetizing from within.

Lancer rubbed at her reddening ear when the woman finally released it. She hissed at the pain and glared at her.

"Are... are you the Witch of the Woods?" Saber asked, squirming in place.

The woman smiled kindly at them as pots and pans clattered in her hands. "Indeed I am. I'm not surprised you could tell. You seemed quite astute," she told Saber, who blushed to her ears. "It's not often I have guests for supper. It will be a nice change of pace." She paused. "You _are_ still hungry, aren't you?"

"Of course!" said Lancer. At the same time, Saber chimed in with, "Yes, ma'am!"

"Such a lively pair," the Witch chuckled. "Now, come along. Put these on and clean yourselves up for supper."

Lancer disrobed, folding her dirty trousers and shirt into a messier pile than Saber's, then attempted to don the new set. Her sister did the same.

The Witch grinned from ear to ear as they buttoned up. "You look so delightful, I could just _eat you up!"_

Saber smiled slightly, red-cheeked and head turned down.

"Oh! silly me! I've forgotten some ingredients." The Witch gave them an apologetic look. "You two make yourselves comfortable, while I head down to the garden." She walked outside, humming to herself a song that neither of them recognized.

Lancer looked at her sister, who blinked owlishly back at her but said nothing in response. For a few seconds they waited in silence. Then, Lancer said, "Do you suppose we just w—"

The room tumbled, and Lancer's knees buckled. She nearly dropped to the floor, and she clutched her head as the sudden disorientation pounded mercilessly at her temples. Then it ended, as quickly as it began. She looked around. The room's white walls were blinding in the artificial light, making her squint in pain, even as she confusedly wondered where she now was. Fanciful clothes, too ornate to be more than for show, filled racks at one of end of the room, and at the other end stood a full-sized diorama with pastel-colored backdrops covered in hearts and stars.

"This era is a marvel, isn't it? They make vestments that cling so tightly to the skin, to reveal the beauty encased without compromising modesty, yet can so easily be shared without readjusting the seams!" Lancer turned slowly and found Saber pulling at the white fabric of a spandex bodysuit. She released it, and its elasticity snapped it back into place. She pulled at it again for a repeat performance. "It's fascinating. If a one would claim this witchcraft, who would disbelieve him?"

Lancer stared at her, uncomprehending. "Sister, what are you wearing?" Odd. Calling her "Sister" felt somehow wrong. Whoever she was to Lancer, she wore not only a body suit, but a short—very short—pleated orange skirt and a enough ribbons and frills to choke a whale. Yet, outlandish as the ensemble was, there was something familiar about it that she couldn't place...

"Sister?" Saber tapped her lip. "Hmm, how potent a brew to addle a Servant so long. One with Magic Resistance at that!" She patted Lancer's head, saying, "There, there, dear Lancer, may your recovery be swift and sure."

Lancer swatted her hand away. "Cut it out!" She glared, reaching up to smooth out her hair and met resistance in the form of a hard, round ornament. "What?" she murmured in confusion, bringing her other hand up to find a matching ornament on the other side. Both fastened her hair into spherical buns with tresses trailing downward, further than her own hair should normally reach.

"What am _I_ wearing?!" she shrieked. It was the same ridiculous costume, except blue where Saber's was orange. Slim red boots with two inch heels went up to her knees, but her thighs between there and the hem of the unreasonably brief skirt felt horribly naked.

"Adorable, is it not?" Saber asked with a giddy smile, then she pouted. "I'm appalled, to be honest, that I cannot easily claim being the more charming of us both. Indeed, though my own personal pulchritude permeates pleasing perfection, your considerably-differentiating lack of physical charm is paradoxically... charming! How vexing."

Lancer frowned, feeling insulted although she wasn't sure what about. "Now, see here, S–sister—"

With a crash, the door at one end of the room flew open. In walked a woman, wearing a yet another of the strange outfits, but with a black skirt this time, holding a camera in one hand, and waving a roll of film in the air with the other with enough enthusiasm to send her long, lavender blue hair splaying about. "I've found it, Miss Saber! We'll have to make it count. This is the last roll."

Saber's eyes sparkled. "Splendid! Make haste, that we may let our beauty forever reign through the ages!"

Lancer's eyes narrowed, suddenly recognizing the woman. "THE WITCH!" she accused. "What have you done?!"

The Witch's gleeful gaze turned suddenly poisonous, with a hateful glare and a raised lip. "You dare call me that–that _hateful_ word?! How does this falsehood chase me even in death? Has even history deemed me so? What a joke! A joke? No, worse—it's a lie! Nothing but slander! Just a lie! It's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie—!"

The fog lifted from Lancer's mind, and she blinked. "Wha—?" She remembered the crepe (and why wouldn't she?), the perfume, and, for some reason, a cottage made of meat, but not where she was now, being ranted at—if one were permissive in defining "rant"—by an older woman in a well-tailored but ill-fitting Sailor Moon-esque costume. She looked at Saber, who was dressed similarly, and resisted the urge to look down on herself. She would very much regret that, if the goosepimples on her exposed thighs were any indication. "Saber?" she asked instead.

"—it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie it's a lie—!"

Saber didn't reply and instead shushed her, maintaining her stare at the woman.

"it'salie it'salie it'salie it'salie it'salie it'salie it'salie IT'SALIE IT'SALIE IT'SALIE IT'SALIE IT'SALIE IT'SALIE IT'SALIE IT'SALIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIELIELIELIELIELIE IT'S! A! LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

The woman ("The Witch," Lancer's brain supplied helpfully), who had long since collapsed onto the floor, screamed uselessly at the ceiling until her voice had gone hoarse and croaky. Then she fell limp and silent, save her attempts to catch her breath.

Nobody spoke into the quiet for what seemed like minutes until Saber erupted into applause. "Brava!" she exclaimed. "Brava! My heart weeps mournfully at your performance! My soul is moved by your sheer repetition, each utterance a punctuated hammer blow in the face of your opposition!"

Oh, so it had been a performance. Lancer nodded along with Saber's words but otherwise said nothing, not being the least bit familiar with the drama plays of this or any era. She did clap politely, however. It seemed the proper thing to do, even if she didn't care for the display personally. She shook her head, and turned to ask, "Saber, what are we doing here, in this place, exactly?"

Saber tilted her head. "Is Lancer Lancer once more?"

"... Yes?" Lancer guessed.

"Oh, frabjous day! Hmm, but where to start? Of course! Is it not obvious to begin at the beginning?" Saber spread her arms wide, as though welcoming a crowd from underneath a rising curtain, and bowed. "Indeed, it began at the day's end, when I was summoned by my Praetor's piteous moans to repel the dastard—no offense meant—who dared to raise her lance at him. My steel met yours, and repel you I did, by gripping your throat until you fought back no longer, if you recall, with limbs hanging limp—"

"Yes, I do recall," Lancer interrupted, grimacing at the memory, "so kindly recall it no further. Skip to today." She paused. " _After_ the crepe stand," she added as an afterthought. You never knew when it came to Saber.

Saber pouted, but jumped ahead. "With crepes in hand, you and I marched to some destination unforeseen. You ate voraciously, while I consumed with more delicacy, and in the moment you envied my lady-like elegance, you were attacked!" Saber put on a face of anguish and shock. "You fell lock-kneed, cursing your baser nature toward the crepe with a fervor beyond the sun's own blaze, then suddenly stood and began a slow amble as though none of the prior had passed."

The woman on the floor turned over and moaned, "Mmm, Kuzuki-sama..." and started to snore.

"Following Praetor's command and my own command, I tailed your weaving path until we came to here's entryway. With hands pressed flat against the windows, you put tongue to glass and remarked that it was of a marvelous meaty flavor, until a matronly woman fussed over your dirtying of the panes. The gods smiled upon you, Lancer, for she," Saber pointed at the woman, "our benefactor, happened by and, taking pity on your addled brains, loosed you from punishment."

Lancer stared at her stone-faced. Best not to react. Best not to think about anything at all. "And the clothes?" she asked, tugging at a hem she planned never to see.

"Lady Caster merely wished to indulge in a hobby. She was entranced by our shared beauty, methinks." Saber's familiar, haughty smile crept across her face. "And not a one would blame her." She tilted her head. "Was that enough for your liking?"

"'Liking' is not how I'd describe any of that, no," Lancer muttered, then did a double take. "Did you call her 'Caster'?" she asked, looking at the boneless heap on the floor.

"Indeed!"

"Meaning Caster, the Magus Servant, one of the seven Servants of the Holy Grail War?"

"That is yet to be verified!"

Lancer nudged Caster's unmoving body with the toe of her red boot. The only response she got was a frown and a murmur of, "Such a tease!" that faded once more into snores.

"I don't suppose we could kill her now and be done with it," Lancer suggested.

The idea hung in the air between them. Saber's brow furrowed deeper and deeper as she waged war internally, and Lancer's dominant hand itched to grasp the grip of a weapon that wasn't there, even as her eyes locked onto the helpless probable-Servant.

"Best not," Lancer finally said, though it took some effort to draw it past her teeth.

"Indeed," came Saber's response, sounding more tense than her usual manner.

"Yes." Lancer looked at Caster again. "Yes. We shouldn't."

Saber nodded sagely, rubbing her chin. "Not a deed to be done by emperor or plebian alike, doing in a hapless spinster. Stay your hand or stain your hand, one could say."

They pretended to let the matter drop, but then silence reigned again, leaving them to their not entirely innocent thoughts.

Lancer's stomach growled. She turned away from Saber, who looked at her dubiously, and tried to change the subject. "Where are my trousers?"

"Where indeed?" Saber took the hint, surprisingly, and thought about it. "Aha! I recall that Lady Caster"—they both looked at her sleeping form again—"took them from the confines of this room. If they are to be found, they will not be here."

Lancer considered for a moment that she could just summon her battle clothes, conspicuous as that would seem, but decided against the idea. After all, she needed the suit regardless, or Illya's displeasure might multiply. She had already failed in her errand, after all. "Let's... let's leave," she said. She just wanted today to be over. "After I find the trousers."

"Lead on, Lancer!" Saber flourished an arm toward the door.

Lancer shook her head, but Saber's antics were almost— _almost_ —starting to grow on her. She pushed through the door and froze.

"Saber...?" she started, turning her head slowly toward the other Servant. "What are they doing here?" She pointed a finger at the array of tables and, more importantly, the _people_ seated at those tables. Many were turning to look. And whisper.

"They're patrons, of course. Oh!" Saber clapped in revelation. "I never said, but Lady Caster is waitstaff here. They wear such fashionable attire, do you not agree?" She waved at the crowd, eliciting a cheer from a few, and drawing far more attention than Lancer wanted at that moment.

"Hey, Onii-chan, stop opening your eyes! You're supposed to keep them closed or you don't look right!" A chill went down Lancer's spine. She recognized that voice.

"I can't see if I don't have my eyes open, you know." Saber shot up, looking around force the source of the voice.

"Deal. With. It!"

"Jiggly. Puff."

Lancer decided that retreat was her best option. She reached for the door knob, preferring the company of the sleeping woman than the fate that awaited her out here.

"I don't see why I'm here. Or why you're making me wear this _stupid_ get up."

Lancer turned the knob. Only it refused, and the door remained unopened.

"Pi pika pi. Picha," a deep voice replied gravely. "Pi."

She rattled the knob, but the door came no closer to opening.

"He's right. You lost, so you do what I say for the rest of the day."

 _"He's right?!_ How did you even—?!"

"Pika."

"Quiet, you!"

They hadn't noticed the two of them yet, thank God. She started banging on the door but to no avail.

"You're such a sore loser, _Misty._ The least you can do is lose with dignity."

 _"It was freaking Mario Party!"_

Lancer was about ready to tear the door off its hinges.

"Hey, everyone, let's just calm down and—uh, hello, miss...?"

Lancer paused and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder lest she make unwanted eye contact. Then she noticed Saber was no longer by her side.

"Praetor!" came Saber's exclamation, and Lancer knew she was doomed. "It is I!"

"S–Saber?!" asked her Master in disbelief.

"Saber?!" said Archer's master.

"Pika?!"

"Sailor Venus?!" Illya squealed.

Lancer closed her eyes and cringed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Wait, if you're here," said Emiya Shirou, "then where'd Lancer, go?"

The other shoe clattered to the floor when Saber said quite loudly, "Espy her there, Praetor!"

Time slowed to a crawl as Lancer turned just enough to see them snapping gazes toward her. She jerked her face away, hoping beyond hope they'd look past her.

 _"SAILOR MOON?!"_ Illya screamed and shot like a bullet toward Lancer with pure glee in her face. "Lanc—I mean, Sailor Moon, your costume is perfect!"

"Erm, hello, Master," she choked. "What brings you here?"

"I'm on a date with Onii-chan," Illya replied with a wiggle and a sing-song tone that were completely at odds with her boyish jeans and cap. "A _cosplay_ date. A cosdate. I made that up." She grinned proudly. "We even have our own entourage!"

"I can see that." Archer's Master's shorts and tank top combination wasn't entirely outlandish, and neither was Emiya Shirou's green vest and brown cargo pants. Leysritt had a curled tuft of her over her forehead and a headband with short pointy ears. Archer would haunt her dreams forever, though, with his red, circular cheeks and darkened nose and long yellow ears and matching onesie. She shuddered.

"Sella wanted to chaperone, but I told her to stuff it," Illya added. Then her eyes narrowed. "What do you have to say for yourself, Lancer?"

Lancer didn't like where this was going. "Master?"

"Onii-chan told me there's no such thing as Eneloop. Onii-chan's a very naive person, though, so I've already forgiven him for giving me trashy American batteries instead. You, on the other hand, didn't follow orders and so will have to be punished."

"As you say, Master," Lancer said with a gulp.

"But I've decided to show you mercy. After all, it's not entirely your fault Miyama electric didn't have Eneloop in stock. So your punishment has been lightened." Illya took a deep breath. "For your transgression, you have to do the speech."

That brought Lancer up short. "The speech?" She couldn't mean...

Illya nodded. "The speech, Lancer. The love and justice one."

"Master, if you could—"

"The speech," Illya said. There was an unbudging finality to her tone. She walked back to their table and shooed Saber off the seat adjacent to Emiya Shirou so that she could sit there herself.

"F–for love a–and..." Lancer mumbled, her cheeks hot.

"Louder!" Illya jeered.

Lancer took a deep breath with closed eyes, trying to shake the nerves off. The sooner she did this, the sooner she could drown herself in the nearest pool. It was easy when you didn't know how to swim.

Her eyes snapped open. "For love and justice!" She moved her hands, mimicking the character's motions playing back in her mind's eye. "I'm the pretty sailor-suited soldier, Sailor Moon! In the name of the moon, I'll punish you!" She punctuated the words with a final gesture, which she held for just a moment before she decided it was time to find a corner to hide in.

There was a smattering of polite applause, but Illya's face had a look of sheer approval on it that Lancer couldn't help but appreciate, causing her lips to quirk upward in a small smile. She resisted the urge to run and shuffled toward them instead, opting to stand behind Illya as no seats were free.

"You know," Archer's Master started, grinning. Sounded like it anyway. The far wall was just so fascinating Lancer couldn't look away. "For a guy, you do Sailor Moon pretty well."

"Yeah!" Emiya added quickly.

Archer smirked. "Pikachu. Pika—ouch." He rubbed his side where his Master elbowed him. "I mean, chaaa," he amended.

"Miss Rin speaks true! You channeled the character! You _were_ the character! Though I must admit unfamiliarity with the source material."

"Of course!" Illya scoffed. "Lancer is _my_ Servant, after all, and _I,_ unlike some others, don't settle for second best." ("Hey!", the aforementioned other interjected) "Even if he's a scrawny girly-boy, he's still _the_ King Arthur, so don't underestimate him even in matters outside of battle."

Archer snorted into his tea.

Lancer grimaced.

"Ah. Open mic night." Leysritt stood up and excused herself to line up for the on-stage karaoke.

Saber's eyes glowed. "A marvelous idea! I'll join as well!"

"No, don't—!" her Master blurted. "I mean, let's not do that today, all right, Saber? Give Leysritt a fair shot."

Saber pouted but didn't argue, although she did visibly deflate. "Very well, Praetor. As they say, the early bird gets the warning shot." She fiddled with the bow on her chest.

"'Worm'. 'The early bird gets the worm.'"

"Truly, Miss Rin? I find that makes little sense."

"You know what? I don't even care."

Illya smirked. "Aww, don't be like that, Misty!"

Archer nodded and added, "Pi pikachu!"

Lancer, for her part, enjoyed the brief reprieve from the spotlight. Putting aside her own feelings about the present company, she felt a warmth in her heart at seeing their easy acceptance of her Master. Illya needed something more than Heaven's Feel and the Holy Grail.

And if Lancer were honest to herself, so did she.

"For goodness' sake, Emiya-kun. If you want to ask Lancer if he shaves his legs, just ask!"

Lancer's eyes jerked toward said Emiya, who swiftly averted his own eyes, even as Archer's Master turned all attention toward him. "Tohsaka! What—?!"

"Lancer," she said sweetly, cutting him off, "please indulge Emiya-kun's curiosity for the moment. He can't keep his eyes off your thighs, you see, and I bet he's wondering just like I am what your preferred method of hair removal is. Shaving? Waxing? Maybe you use an epilator?"

Emiya's cheeks flushed red, and he mumbled, "That's not what I—"

"So then you were staring for another reason?"

"I do not practice body hair removal, no," Lancer answered smoothly, although she glanced at Emiya and discreetly tugged at her skirt, suddenly self-conscious about her exposed thighs. "There's never been a need."

The Tohsaka Master's teasing face darkened. "No need, huh. Is that right?" She muttered something about cross-playing blond pretty boys under her breath.

Lancer took that distraction and sat herself in Leysritt's vacated seat, sliding her legs under the lace tablecloth. Even then, she spotted Emiya glancing her way in her peripheral. She shivered but turned her head the other way, just in time to see Leysritt step onstage with mic in hand.

An electric riff burst from the speakers, then the drums kicked in, and a familiar melody filled the room.

 _"Fighting evil. Ah. Moonlight.  
Winning love. Daylight.  
Never running. Real fight.  
Ah. Sailor Moon."_

Even omitting words, Leysritt was unable to maintain the tempo of the song. Nor could she sing in the proper key. Or the proper tune. Really, she seemed to be singing at the same tone all throughout, when her voice wasn't strangling itself into a choked whisper. It made Lance wince, but Leysritt seemed unbothered by the groaning crowd's reaction.

"Somehow nothing about this is surprising," Archer's Master murmured.

"Go, Leys, go!" screamed her own Master, having clambered up on the back of her seat, rocking back and forth as she redoubled her support for Leysritt's efforts. "Go, Leys, go!"

Lancer jolted upward, trying to get a handle on her uncaring Master's precarious position, but only succeeded in stumbling backward into Emiya, knocking him out of his seat and sending them both tumbling to the ground.

She lay on top of Emiya's warm body for a moment, trying to reorient herself, then pushed herself up to find herself staring into Emiya's wide eyes and red face. The Tohsaka Master grinned widely, and Illya hid her own eyes behind her hands, peering down at her through the spaces between her fingers, torn between blushing and frowning. Saber looked giddy, and Archer...

Where in the world was Archer?

"My, how forward of you, Lancer," the aforementioned Servant's Master said. A high-pitched giggle escaped her throat. "A handsome king taking advantage of a poor innocent peasant." She giggled again. There was something in her eyes that shook Lancer to the bone.

"Tohsaka, it's not—!" Shirou stammered.

"Lancer!" Illya interjected, cheeks still beet red. "D-don't you dare make a move on my Onii-chan like that again, got it?"

"Master, it's not what you—"

"The group relations commence?! Then it is imperial privilege to partake!" A third body joined them on the floor, crushing Lancer down onto Emiya's surprisingly sturdy chest. She felt his muscles through the fabric.

"Saber! What are you—urghk, no! Leave my pants on!"

The Tohsaka Master hadn't stopped smiling. "They're not going to be letting us back in anytime soon, are they, Arch—what are you wearing?"

Archer adjusted his white mask and fixed his hat to tilt just the right way, two items of clothing he hadn't had moments ago. Likewise, he had abandoned his yellow onesie for a smart, fitted tuxedo, complete with a black cape with red lining.

He didn't answer her. Instead, he sipped his tea loudly and returned it to its saucer with a loud clink. He announced dramatically, "It seems my work here is done."

Lancer contorted herself to frown at him from the floor, still trapped between Saber and Shirou's impromptu floor dance. "But... you didn't do anything," she accused.

"At last! Trousers entangle Praetor no longer!"

"Wow, Emiya-kun. Do _you_ shave your legs, too?"

"D-don't get carried away with Onii-chan, Lancer!"

 _"If you. Take. My hand.  
Ah. Fly away.  
To the skies. Eternity.  
Fly away.  
Ah. Sailor Moon."_

Lancer groaned and let her head droop down onto Emiya's shoulder. Still, she couldn't help but smile, even if she hid it in his arm. She felt, perhaps for the first time, actually glad that Emiya was around. At least this way they could split this particular misery between them.

Her righteous reprisal for any inappropriate touches would have to wait.

* * *

Next time on _The Emperor's New Clothes..._

"Lancer? Why are you wearing... _that?"_

 _The Prince and the Pauper!_

See you then! ❤

* * *

I hope you enjoyed reading! I'm unashamed to admit that I drew not a small amount of inspiration from _The Artist and the Faker_ when writing this, so if you notice any similarities... _cough_ So yeah!

If you're confused about why things are the way they are, worry not! Again, the stories in this series will be told out of order, but I promise there is a timeline I'm working with. (I can't promise there won't be plot holes, though...)

I apologize to everyone who waited diligently for the this story's next installment. It took a long time and I had to scrap several different stories that just weren't working. I'm glad I could finally get this out there for everyone to read.

And now for some bad news: Please don't expect any updates to this fic in a timely manner. Although I do have plans for the rest of the stories, I'm afraid I don't have much time to budget for it in lieu of other things, but if I do have time, I might bang on the next installment anyway. In light of that, please consider this an official unofficial hiatus until it isn't.

Thanks again to Raiyoukai for pushing me to write this stupid thing and for ideas and generally supporting this piece.

And thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, followed, and, heck, everyone who read the dang thing too. I really appreciate it and all of you.

Until next time, ciao!

* * *

P.S. I had no idea Eneloop was a real brand until I started writing this. Apparently they weren't around in 2002 when I've decided to set this fic, though, so...


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